The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson Page B

mumbling their cretinous testimonials, about Darren’s love of life and Darren’s generous spirit. I think to myself, I bet you were never this kind to Darren when he was breathing. I bet you made Darren’s life a living hell.
    Call me old-fashioned, but, personally, I think floral tributes should be confined to the graveyard. Or the homes of the mourners. I think the front-room curtains should be drawn, according to custom, to signify loss, but also a desire for privacy. This is my grief. And my pain is not your pain. Go and get some pain of your own.
    Everyone seems to want in on the emotional action. All I can say is, Give it time. Before you know it you’ll have more grief than you know what to do with. And not the self-conscious, superficial variety for some TV princess you never got within a mile of. Or the boy from the year below. But the sort that takes a hold of you andinhabits you, like a sickness. That possesses a body so comprehensively that you’ll feel yourself obliterated. And so profoundly, utterly peculiar, that you’ll want to keep it to yourself.

I’ve decided to sell the house in France
    I ’ve decided to sell the house in France. These last couple of years we hardly used it. And when we did, we’d just follow the same deadly routine – a drink here, a walk there, etc. We knew a few people in the nearest village. But neither of us really liked them. And taking friends down with us was too much responsibility. That sounds dreadfully mean, I know, but the mind-numbing effort of being Mine Host for a full week just made me miserable. And late at night, after a glass or two too many we’d just end up having the same petty disagreements we’d had a dozen times before, guests or no guests.
    Five or six years ago, when there was still work to be done on the place, that fact would give us a little motivation. Some shared purpose. And we’d talk about how, once it was all finally completed, we’d be able to sit back and appreciate it, but it was quite the opposite. We just realised how bloody boring it was down there. And when I lifted the toilet seat last year and found a rat skittering about in the bowl, that just about did it. I screamed and slammed the seat back down. Let’s be honest, if you can’t scream when you find a rat in your lav, when exactly are you meant to scream? John came huffing and puffing up the stairs, assessed the situation,then disappeared. And came back up the stairs a couple of minutes later, carrying his tool box.
    What exactly, I asked, was he planning to do to the rat? Dismantle it? I don’t think he knew himself. Anyway, not surprisingly, after that little incident I could never fully relax whilst visiting the bathroom. And the house’s days were probably numbered.
    To be honest, I’m half tempted to sell the house in London. It was too big when it was just the two of us. Although God knows where I’d go. A part of me thinks I should buy some little pad in Clerkenwell. Or on the river. Then at least I could walk to the cinema or the theatre or a restaurant. If you’re living in a city, the argument goes, then actually live right in the heart of it. But then I’m sure I’d have young people pissing on my doorstep, or puking, or fornicating. Or whatever it is young people do these days.
    The fact is I freaked out and had to leap into my car in NW3, so how the hell would I cope living even deeper in the city? Perhaps I could have a speedboat tied up on the river, with its engine gently ticking over. If I felt a bit queasy I could just jump into it and head for Kent.
    I have no aching desire to raise chickens and grow my own potatoes, wherever one goes to do that sort of thing. And, apparently, I have my doubts about living in London. Looks like I’ll just have to stay here in my bijou cottage until I decide where on earth I might feel comfortable.
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    Actually, I don’t know why I’m talking about the